Kill for the Living
by High Suzerian
Summary: Loyalty to the Emperor, loyalty to the Primarch, loyalty to your Brothers. In the fires of heresy and cold steel of treachery, something has to give. Separated from their Legion in the far reaches of the galaxy, a company of astartes must choose a side, and be damned either way.
1. Chapter 1

Depus had never quite got used to the views of the void. Looking out on the expanse of Port Vicarus, the vast array of mighty towers, bustling docks and ships of every size and description. Merchantmen, warships, bulk transports, freighters, clippers and defence monitors filled the sky and docks, slowly drifting through the void in a dance choreographed by complex geometrics and vectors communicated from the command spire, the tallest tower rising from the centre of the circlet of steel which made up the port.

"You really can never help but marvel at the Imperium's might, can you?"

Depus turned to see his Company Captain enter the viewing gallery, his cragged face bathed in the green rays of Vicarus, the gas giant orbited by the port.

The younger Astartes smiled. "I like to appreciate what I fight for Captain Raigo. Has the novelty worn off since you left the Sol System all those years ago?"

Raigo came to a halt beside his adjutant with a clunk of his MkII armour. "True, I have seen such a view a hundred times. Although each one is unique, a different world in this vast galaxy, a different people conquered, over the two centuries they all merge together in a cauldron of war and bloodshed. But this one is special. A new chapter in the story of our Legion."

"The first since Ullanor," said Depus proudly.

"Precisely," answered Raigo. "Before we were just one of the eighteen, a mere cog in the mighty machine of the Great Crusade. Perhaps more favored than most, but still equals with our brothers."

"Now we are his equerries," said Depus, almost to himself.

"We are. We were always proud, always at the forefront of the fighting, never shaken by the enormity of the task set before us. Waging war not only with the cunning and ferocity of the ancient lupine packs, but with the honour of a brotherhood that knows exactly what they're fighting for, and what's expected of them. But now, as the Warmaster's own, we must strive to live up the reputation of the first among the Legions. For us, the Twenty First Company, this is where it begins."

The two Luna Wolves were silent as they looked out at the hive of activity that was a Great Crusade space-port. This was the last major outpost of the Imperium before the unexplored space of the Jarast Reaches.

Raigo's com-bead crackled to life. Depus's enhanced hearing caught every word, each laced with the metallic ring of mechanical augmentations.

"My Lord Raigo, this is Korall Sen, Master of the Port. The senior officers of the one thousandth, one hundred and eleventh Expeditionary Fleet are assembled in the central spire and awaiting your briefing for the mission to come."

Raigo paused before answering, his mouth curling into a grimace.

"Thank you Master Sen, I will be with them shortly. How goes the muster of the fleet?"

There was a static burst of binary. "All port facilities are... proceeding on schedule Captain," drawled the voice. Depus imagined it's origin, undoubtedly a hunched Mechanicum Magos, more machine than man, all but enslaved to his purpose in life.

"That will be all Master," Raigo curtly replied, and the line was cut.

"You know him?" asked Depus.

Raigo sighed. "He served with the 63rd fleet maybe fifty years ago, a fine magos by any means, but with a superior mindset and an independent streak, a dangerous combination."

"At least we won't be taking him with us."

"We will feel his influence," Raigo replied. "Port Vicarus is supplying the Mechanicus contingent of the expedition, I don't doubt whoever is accompanying us was chosen by him, to serve his ulterior goals."

"Surely we're all on the same side?" queried Depus. "Mechanicum and Imperium, forging an Empire in the stars, under the leadership of the Emperor?"

"We are, but it is deeper than that. The new Imperium and Mechanicum are allies, and that alliance serves both our needs well, for now. You may think me an old coot Depus, but I remember a time when the Forge Lords of Mars were just another enemy to be complied, whose resources and technologies were needed to conquer the galaxy, not unlike the gene-smiths of Luna. But the Emperor forged an alliance of mutual benefit, and two hundred years later, most of the galaxy bends the knee. But the Mechanicum is apart from that servitude, it's true loyalty is to it's own traditions and secrets, always striving to undercut the Imperium in claiming lost technologies and advanced civilizations. And why? Power and leverage. I can never fully trust them."

Depus paused for a moment to consider this concept. A young officer of Horus's Legion, he had never given the red robed priests much thought, considering them just another cog in the Imperial war machine, like himself and his brothers.

"They are important," Depus ventured, "in that they supply our war materiel, our ammunition. Our armour even, and the ship we are on right now! Every ship out there. You mightn't trust them, but we need them."

"And it is that need that I do not trust. To need something is to be dependent, and if it is taken away…" Raigo left the sentence drifting like the ships above the port.

"Ah, but they need us as well," Depus pointed out. "What use is power armour without astartes to fill them? What use are ships without Legionaries to man them? The Mechanicum supports us, but the Legions are the capstone of the Imperial war effort!"

"Mortals can man ships, utilize tanks and aircraft, even fight effectively, when used in enough numbers by a commander with a brain," remarked Raigo. "But now I am just arguing for arguments sake, come, we've a ceremony to attend.

They turned and marched through the hissing blast doors and down the ship's corridor. The crowds of serfs and crew members bowed at the passage of the towering astartes, lords of life and death.

"Speaking of mortals," said Depus as the two officers were saluted by a squad of armsmen as they passed. "Who are the high-rankers within this expedition? Anyone of of note?"

"An upstart called Maxillus," said Raigo. "Some sort of marshal, I forget the exact rank. I fight for the common man, not fops handed their idiot father's title."

"Things are different nowadays Captain," said Depus. "No longer is it just the Legions at the forefront of the Crusade. Every day, thousands of courageous men and women give their lives to further the Emperor's dream of a united mankind."

"While peacocks like Maxillus look on and reap the spoils," spat back Raigo. He shook his head.

"I am sorry Depus. I do value the sacrifices of our fellows, and would never dream of minimizing their honour. But I remember a time when the astartes basically had the stars to ourselves. No clerics dogging our heels, no pretentious lordlings thinking themselves our equals. And don't get me started on these remembrancers…." he growled as a group of imagists scattered before the the two giants.

Depus chuckled. "I've taken a liking to them. They ensure that we will never be forgotten, no matter what the future holds. The people of the Imperium will always have the knowledge of how mankind was united, and who to thank for it."

"Hmmph," grumbled Raigo. They reached the blast doors of the primary hangar bay of the battleship Warcry. Stretching for a hundred meters along the ship's hull, it was a cavernous space filled with the vehicles iconic to the crusade. They walked past a squadron of fury interceptors, fresh from the forges of Retlaxi, the deck-crews dropping everything they were doing to hurriedly salute their overlords.

As they rounded the voidcraft, they caught site of a wall of white war plate. Fifty Luna Wolves standing in formation, armour polished to gleaming pearl, the standard of the 21st held proud, displaying the wolf's head and crescent moon.

"Quite a show of force," remarked Depus as the two officers approached.

"They need to know who's in charge," answered Raigo.

A warrior stepped from the ranks. His firm face an echo of the glory of Horus, one of many the within the Legion that bore a resemblance to their Primarch, due to the reforming of the facial bone structure caused by genetic implantations. His armour, the latest MkIV plate, was sparsely adorned, with just the symbols marking him as an officer, and the amber Eye of Horus proudly displayed on his chest. A tightly twisted topknot rounded off his image as a true son of their Primarch.

"Well met Drakedor!" smiled Raigo. "Ready to meet our new companions?

Murin Drekedor, lieutenant of the 1st Battalion, grimaced and growled. He spoke, the words from his mouth guttural and harsh, like a blade scraping stone. The language of Cthonia, recruiting ground of the Legion.

"I like not that I am dragged on this wasteful venture, parading for the amusement of mortals."

Depus knew that Raigo did not speak the language as fluently as the legionaries under his command, but the Captain of the 21st had gone to great lengths to master the harsh tongue.

"They serve Lupercal as do you and I, Drakedor. They may be weak, they may be foolish, but mark me the time will come when we will be glad of them. Patience brother, war will come soon."

Drakedor shrugged. "Let us get this farce over with then."

With a shout of Cthonic from Raigo, the Legionaries started to board the waiting stormbird, the Talon of Lupercal. The venerable vessel had carried Luna Wolves into the fires of war for over a hundred years, and commonly served as Raigo's personal transport. It's mighty engines roared with power as it left the hanger and skimmed through the crowded sky of the port.

"This pomp is not what we were bred for…" snarled Drakedor.

Depus rolled his eyes, careful to not let the short-tempered chieftain see. Drakedor was hot-blooded at the best of times, and none of them had seen combat since Ullanor, the better part of a year ago. He was obviously spoiling for a fight.

"Patience Murin," Depus said. "Third blood in the cages after?"

Drakedor smiled. "Aye. But even that will only sate me for a while. I need real blood, xenos or mortal, I care not. Don't keep us long here, eh Captain?"

Raigo looked at the Astartes filling the crew compartment.

"Like it or not Drakedor, this is what's expected of us now. We are the Warmaster's Legion, and the masses will be crowding to grovel at our feet. None of us want it, but it's a reality. But worry not, as Commander of this Expeditionary Fleet, I'll do my utmost for us to back crusading as soon as possible."

"Coming into land Captain," came the pilots voice.

"Alright, 21st Company!" roared Raigo over the thunder of the engines. "Form up on me, standard parade drill! Let's show these mortal's to whom they owe their fealty!"

The doors slammed down and the Luna burst forth as quickly as on a battlefield. Raigo marched to the head of the column, followed by Depus and Drakedor.

Arrayed in front of them were gold-armoured soldiers in ostentatious purple uniforms, masked helms obscuring their faces and holding long-barreled las rifles to attention. Depus had read the order of battle for the expeditionary fleet, and surmised that these must be the elite Krian Dragoons, under the personal command of the Viscount-Marshal himself.

"Impressive…" he muttered, as he realized each the soldiers was well built and at least two meters tall, some even eye-level with his chin.

"Even neophytes could smash them with ease," said Drakedor scornfully.

"Really? They have an exemplary combat record," replied Depus. "I've read they don't shy from the melee, and excel at bringing down more powerful foes who underestimate both their willingness to take casualties and stay in the fight, and their raw skill with the bayonet and blade."

"You waste your time reading," answered Drakedor. "You should fight. What are you, one those idiot Warrior Kings of Ultramar? All you need to know about mortals is that their flesh is weak their and bones are brittle, with minds too small and unable to grasp the true meaning of war."

"You're being too harsh on them Murin," said Depus cooly. "And underestimating them immensely. Don't tell me you've never seen an Astartes fall to the weight of fire mere humans can muster."

"Even a great bear will fall to a pack of dogs when set upon alone. That is why the Legions always do battle in units thousands of Astartes strong. Together we can never be defeated."

"I can't disagree there," said Depus, as they entered a large antechamber filled to bursting with every sort of servant of the Great Crusade possible. Generals of the Army and Captains of the Armada stood side by side, surrounded by adjutants, standard bearers, scribes, clerics and servitors. A gaggle of techpriests, clicking away in binary and attended to by servitors and chained slaves were given a wide berth by the rest of the congregation. Remembrancers were everywhere, scrambling for a better view of the white-clad giants. Banners of every colour hung from the walls, detailing the victories and achievements of the glorious history of the Great Crusade.

"It's like a mini-Ullanor," whispered Depus, causing a chuckle from Drakedor.

"Greetings my Lords!" came a voice from the crowd, and out burst a man literally gleaming with finery. His jewel-encrusted golden armour and row of gleaming medals caught the light spectacularly. An exotic cloak of thick spotted fur was draped around his shoulders, on his head was an auric plumed helmet. An immaculate uniform of the richest purple with gold lace completed the image of a heroic leader of the Great Crusade.

"As you probably know, I am Viscount-Marshal Clade Borosian Maxillus, Lord of-,"

"Very good Viscount-Marshal," said Raigo sternly, holding up a gauntleted hand. "Sergeant Barad, if you would."

Clad head to toe in imposing MkIII Iron armour, Sergeant Eiridor Barad stepped forward.

"Officers of the One Thousand, One Hundred and Eleventh Expeditionary Fleet!" boomed out the sergeant's voice at his vox's maximum volume.

"I present your Lord Commander, Captain Dantor Raigo, Twenty-First Company, Sixteenth Legion Astartes Luna Wolves!"

The hall was quelled into silence at the thunder of the Astartes' voice. Raigo stepped forward.

"I am here at the behest of Horus Lupercal, Warmaster of the Imperium! Our mission is as it has always been over the past two centuries, to unite the scattered and enslaved realms of mankind, to cleanse the stars of the xenos taint, to bring the light of the Imperial Truth into the darkest recesses of the galaxy."

He paused, surveying the hopeful mass of humanity before him.

"I have fought in wars innumerable, as I am sure many of you have also. You all know what to expect, hardship, war, and death. But all in the name of a united humanity, a reality to which we are so close! To achieve it, we must be vigilant, trust each other and work together if we are to come through this alive. Mark me, every single one of you is indispensable to our cause. Every command obeyed, every record taken, every bullet fired, it all counts. The Imperium is watching us, my Lords and Ladies, and we will not be found wanting!"

The crowd erupted in cheering, as if they had already liberated great swathes of the galaxy.

Raigo nodded to Sergeant Barad.

"High Command of the Expedition, report to the Strategium, all other personnel commence embarkation procedures!"

Depus and Drakedor joined Raigo in the Strategium, followed by Maxillus and a large group of officers. Shouts and cries of frustration echoed from outside as remembrancers swarmed against the ceramite wall of astartes, desperate to document the historic discussion. But these marines had held firm against the worst horrors the galaxy could throw at them, and easily held them back.

Raigo regarded the officers of the Army that made up one side of the room. He took in the array of uniforms and rank insignias, medals and other unique distinguishing features. Some regiments he recognized, such as the olive drab worn by an Outremar general, the purple and gold of Kria and the deep red of Terra. Others were less traditional, such as the heavy mail and ragged furs of a Helvegan chieftain, or the whirring augmetics of a Phakorian Siege Master.

The Admirals of the fleet were across from them, more orderly in appearance, but still a varied bunch with subtle differences in uniform and decorations.

There were also high ranking civilians, made up of an eclectic mix of captains of the merchant navy, logisticians, Imperial nobles and representatives of the remembrancer order.

Alone and stooped under heavy robes, a Mechanicum Magos regarded Raigo with too many glowing eye-lenses.

These were the tools he'd been given by the Warmaster to forge an empire.

"The Master of the Port informs me that fleet preparations are on schedule, but we still have much work to do. The Jarast Reaches are unexplored space, and we must be prepared to obtain a foothold quickly, and possibly face the horrors of the Old Night. I want an up to date order of battle, including naval strength-"

The doors burst open, and Sergeant Barad strode into the room.

"Apologies Captain," he said.

"This better not be those damned remembrancers Sergeant….." growled Raigo.

"No sir," replied Barad. "Ultramarine ships are entering the port."

"And?" exclaimed Raigo, his annoyance building. Depus and Drakedor glanced at each other.

"They're broadcasting unusual messages sir."

"Anything to be concerned about?"

Barad paused, his expression unreadable under his emotionless helm.

"Probably not sir. Will I monitor the situation until you are available?"

"Do. Depus, go with him, make sure everything is in order."

Depus saluted and strode from the chamber almost feeling Drakedor's eyes burning through the back of his head at his frustration at being left in what was looking to be a mind-numbing meeting.

"How many ships Sergeant?" he asked Barad as they entered the elevator that would take then to the control hub of Port Vicarus. " And what was their message?

"Eleven ships sir, ranging in size from frigates to a battle barge. As far as I'm aware, communications with them resulted in conflicting information in regards to our presence here. "

"Well what did they say?" said Depus, as the elevator began to rise.

"That they were in command of the Expeditionary Fleet."

"What? Well, we'll see." The doors slid open, revealing the bustling bridge, filled with hardwired servitors and scrambling officers and technomagi. The room, or arena was more the word, as the bridge for an entire port was massive, far larger than even a battleships command center.

Overlooking the proceedings upon an archaic throne, linked by numerous mind impulse units and piping, surrounded by mewling servitors and skulls was the Master of the Port, Korall Sen. Depus saw him watching the intruders to his domain with his glowing green lenses, feeling the intensity of his gaze even from this distance.

The two Astartes started picking their way through the semi-organised chaos. Depus grabbed an officer by her arm as she was berating a group of ratings.

"Where's your chief of communications?"

To be fair, she only hesitated for a second when suddenly confronted by the giant before her, before pointing to a large console surrounded by servo skulls and scribes.

The techpriest working the console, with a vox speaker in place if a mouth, was deep in binary conversation when they reached him.

"I need to speak to the Ultramarine commander," said Depus sharply.

The man looked at him, and started frantically operating the cogitator in front of him. He replied in a monotone machine voice. "Patching you through my Lord."

Depus activated his com-bead.

"This is Lieutenant Furan Depus, XVIth Legion," he said. Authority came easily to his voice. He was a representative of the Warmaster after all. "To whom am I speaking?"

He saw Sergeant Barad point out the wide viewport. A ship was cruising into view, one of the relatively new battle-barge subclasses, optimised for planetary assault. It's hull was bedecked in heavy armour-plating, the blue and white heraldry of Guilliman's stellar empire emblazoned upon it.

A voice, calm but firm, answered Depus over the vox.

"This is Captain Gaius Tyron, 101st Company, XIIIth Legion. What is your purpose at port Vicarus Lieutenant?"

Depus chose his words carefully, as he addressing a senior officer of another Legion, which demanded his respect. "My Captain has been appointed Commander of the Expeditionary Fleet set to depart from this port. May I enquire to your purpose here sir?"

"The same purpose as your Captain, Lieutenant. I have been appointed Commander of the 1111th Expeditionary Fleet, by edict of Terra. I would not doubt the word of a fellow legionary, but there is an error that needs to be corrected. I must speak to your Captain immediately."

"I'm afraid he is deeply embroiled in matters of the Expedition, sir. However I would be happy to talk with you personally."

"Unacceptable Lieutenant. I will be en route to the Central Spire momentarily, inform your Captain."

Depus sighed. This was the last thing that Raigo, already frustrated with dealing with the horde of mortals, would want to deal with. But what choice did he have? He had been given a direct order from a senior Legion officer.

"It will be done sir," he answered, and cut the cut link.

"Problem sir?" asked Barad.

Depus started moving towards the elevator. "Possibly Barad. Nothing on a crusade-breaking scale, but a severe annoyance none the less. The Captain won't be pleased."

"The Ultramarines are a proud Legion sir," replied Barad. "But above all else, they are practical. They will yield without issue if they are in the wrong."

"It could be worse I suppose," said Depus with a smile. "We could be dealing with Russ's upstart pups."

He activated his com. "Captain Raigo, sorry sir but the Ultramarine commander is insisting on speaking to you in person. He's on his way now..."

"By Lupercal, Depus, I gave you an order to handle it!" came back the snarl. "I expected more from you. What on Terra do they want?"

"Their Captain says he is in command of the Expeditionary Fleet, by edict of Terra."

There was silence for a few seconds as Raigo contemplated the information. "Right. I suspect an administrative error. Meet me in the antechamber, this mess has to be sorted."

Five minutes later they arrived, Raigo was accompanied by a tactical squad and the company standard bearer.

"Where's Drakedor?" asked Depus.

"There needs to be a Legion officer at the briefing, and the experience will do him well."

Depus raised an eyebrow. "Does he even speak Gothic? I don't mean to question you Captain, but politics and logistics really isn't his strong suit!"

"The mortals must learn our ways, and Drakedor will be the most extreme example of the Legion they will have ever to deal with. It'll also do the Lieutenant some good, both Legion and Army must learn to work together."

Depus chuckled. "As long as they're still alive, you know his temperament at the best of times."

Their conversation was cut short by the rhythmic drumbeat of ceramite boots.

"Get ready for our parade drill to be put to shame…" muttered Depus.

The Luna Wolves looked on as the cobalt-blue warriors marched into view in perfect unison. Their armour was polished to a sapphire sheen and inlaid with details of ivory and gold, honouring each individual with their squad and company markings, their rank, with many battle honours and crusade records.

They were led by warrior in hulking MkIII plate with a trans-crested helm, bearing the sigils and heraldry of a company captain. His name was carved onto stone scroll work on his left pauldron, beneath an ultima of the purest white.

Raigo stepped forward. "Greetings, son of Guilliman. I am Captain Dantor Raigo of the Luna Wolves."

The Ultramarine Captain removed his helmet with a hiss of unfastening pressure clamps, revealing a warm face with a deep brow. Green eyes smiled, though his mouth was stern. He pounded his right gauntlet on his plastron, giving the traditional salute of his homeworld.

"Ave, Captain Raigo," replied the Ultramarine. "I am Captain Gaius Tyron, of the 101st Company, XIIIth Legion. I believe there has been a misunderstanding with regards to the command of this expeditionary fleet."


	2. Chapter 2

Facing the white wolves of the Warmaster, Brother Valorum watched the exchange take place through his red tinted lenses, bolter gripped tightly in his ceramite fists. Under his helmet there was a blanket of sweat, hot and moist. He cursed himself as he felt the churning of his psyche.

 _A red eye in his mind, deep and unblinking, wolves whimpering as they are put to slaughter, banners burning-_

Stop. _Stop_ you fool, he tells himself, gritting his teeth, his eyes closed, but the images seeped into his soul, drops through cracks in a great damn.

 _No._

 _A voidship falling from the heavens, a verdant world aflame, the screams of innocents. His brothers dead, their dead flesh in his hands-_

Valorum opened his eyes, trying to reign in his panic. It had never been this difficult to hold back his mind, and never had he been assailed by images so vivid. He tried to concentrate on what was happening before him.

Tyron, his Captain, was addressing the Luna Wolf commander, an astartes of grizzled complexion and wizened eyes. Beside him stood a young marine, with hair of short-cropped blonde. _Smoke seeped from the joints of their pearl-white plate, black and toxic, coiling like a serpent around their bodies, obscuring their faces and blemishing their armour, staining it a dirty green. The black mist spread, flowing over Valorum, suffocating the Ultramarines-_

Breath. Breath. Inhaling deeply the oxygen from his helmets filter, Valorum fought to calm his mind. He stood in the third rank, between his brothers, Elatus and Taelod, both very much alive, and whom he would give his life to keep that way. He could not let his mind revolt, it was forbidden, the Emperor Himself had commanded it. He had sworn an oath to inhibit his gift, cast away what he was, and serve with simplicity and purity as Battle-Brother Valorum, nothing else.

He looked at the Luna Wolves, resplendent in their white armour, the epitome of the Emperor's vision. He did not understand his visions; he did not want to. He cast the dark thoughts from his mind, and focussed on the proceedings.

"We don't have the time for astropathic communication," Raigo was saying. "The fleet is due to depart on its mission, and must have a commander at the helm. The Terran administratum appointed you, Captain Tyron, while the Officio of the Warmaster chose myself, apparently without communication between each other. I believe it is down to us to decide."

"What experience do you have of commanding fleets Captain?" asked Tyron, not scornfully, but that's how Raigo took it.

"How old are you, War-borne?" said the Luna Wolf, eyes narrowed.

"You did not answer my question."

"That honour marking on your right shoulder," said Raigo. "You're a veteran of Eurydice Terminal. An old campaign, steeped in glory and legend. From the looks of you, you couldn't have been more than a line legionary. At that time, I was leading a company."

"This is accomplishing nothing Captain," said Tyron sternly. "I was rightfully appointed commander of this fleet, and I intend to carry out my duty to the Crusade."

"Horus Lupercal is Warmaster of the Crusade," answered Raigo. "You're duty is to him."

"If I may Captain." It was Demior, veteran of the Invictarii, the Primarch's chosen, and now Centurion of the 2nd Cohort. Quick of mind as well as blade, he was Tyron's right hand man in all things.

"I propose joint command of the fleet, a duumvirate of sorts. Each of you has equal authority, and a veto on any orders."

Raigo furrowed his great brow as he contemplated the suggestion. "Orders need to flow naturally, Centurion. We cannot afford getting bogged down by interdictions."

"In theory you are correct Captain," replied Demior. "But you are both experienced officers from the most capable Legions, our ways of war may differ, but if we are to serve together, we must learn to complement each other. I believe it can be done here, as it was done in the past. When the Primarch Fulgrim accompanied the Legion of Horus Lupercal, the Emperor gave them joint command. If you as old as you claim to be Captain, you should remember those days."

Raigo's lip curled into a grin. "You are learned Centurion," he said, before turning to Tyron. "What do you think Captain?"

"It might be the best solution Captain Raigo, for now at least," said Tyron, stroking his chin. "Until we can get confirmation from Terra or the Warmaster."

Raigo was silent. His second in command, the marine known as Depus, leaned in and whispered in his ear. The Captain nodded.

"I accept Captain Tyron," he said. "Joint command it will be, for now. But we have already wasted valuable time, and there are worlds to conquer."

If there was sound in the void, the roars of the engines of a hundred ships would be enough to deafen a world. But the skies of Port Vicarus were deathly silent as the 1111th Expeditionary Fleet took sail into the unknown.

Leading the fleet was the battleship _Honour of Caranth._ One of the relatively rare Oberon Class, the _Honour_ was newly commissioned the Imperium's service from the great docks of Cypra Mundi after an extensive refit. Originally the Flagship of the Caranth Despotate, it's Captain had opted to betray his insane leader and join the Imperium. His offer of allegiance, the fury of his ship's broadsides and lance batteries, decimating the Despot's fleet and sealing the outcome of the compliance before it had even begun. Outnumbered and surrounded, the return fire had crippled the mighty ship, before the cruisers of the Imperial Armada had closed to its rescue. Refitted with the most advanced sensory towers and auger relays the technomagi of Mars could produce, re-crewed with veteran ratings and officers, and assigned elite fighter and bomber wings equipped with advanced voidcraft, the _Honour of Caranth_ was a battleship to rival any in the Warmaster's fleets.

Rivalling its size was the Legion Battleship _Warcry,_ its armour plates bearing the white of the Warmaster's sons, the Wolf's head of his Legion emblazoned on its flanks. Faster than most ships of its size, it excelled as the tip of the spear in head-on fleet engagements, especially after extensive modifications amplifying its short range firepower to formation-rending proportions. Auxiliary flight decks had been added to its flanks, enabling the ship to act as a strongpoint in planetary assaults. Great armour plates tens of meters thick completed its image as a nigh-invincible bringer of ruin.

Smaller than either of the great battleships was the Ultramarine flagship, the battle-barge _Thracian,_ although it still dwarfed the majority of ships in the fleet, in size as well as firepower. Deck after deck of macrobatteries, supplemented by the ship-breaking bombard cannons bristling along its spine, the warship would have been a terrifying opponent to face in battle, buts its purpose lay not in the destruction of enemy fleets, though it certainly excelled at it. Hints to its true purpose lay in its prow, where nestled a forward launch bay containing ranks of assault craft. Flanking the hanger were torpedoe tubes, through which could be launched either a deadly payload of munitions, or the dreaded boarding torpedoes of the Legions. The _Thracian's_ keel was pock-marked with tell-tale drop pod chutes, ready to rain a planets ruin. In total, the ship could facilitate the invasion of four-hundred Astartes, usually more than enough to subdue a typical planet. But not all worlds in the far reaches of the galaxy are anything near 'typical.'

Arranged in formation were the ships of the line of the Imperial, of varying classes and size. A heavy cruiser flotilla formed the fleet's mailed fist, supported by carriers and smaller light cruisers. Clustered around them were shoals of frigates and destroyers of every description, tiny in comparison the larger warships, but each still the size of a hive spire.

Of lower number but deadlier ability were the cruisers of the astartes, of both the XIIIth and XVIth, notable for their speed and flexibility over firepower. But a shipmaster would be fool to try and outfight them ship to ship. Advanced engines and thick armour allowed these craft to close shockingly fast, unleashing the space marines on board to gut their adversary's ships from the inside out.

Outnumbering the previous vessels two to one were the transports and civilian vessels, of even more varied characterization than the many types of warships. Bulky transports carried thousands of mortal soldiers and military vehicles in their bowls, the backbone of every compliance. Others carried supplies, billions of tonnes of food, ammunition and fuel. Luxury clippers bearing the heraldry of noble families of the new Imperium, some from Terra itself, sailed alongside crude freighters ferrying thousands of destitute colonists, each carrying their occupants to a new life among the stars. On the newly complied worlds, these colonists would form the heart of the new order and Imperial Truth, leading the ignorant populations from the darkness of Old Night.

As the fleet reached deep space outside the Vicarus system, a low hum resonated within the hulls of each vessel as their geller shields were raised, a curtain of sanity, a bulwark against the unknown. Simultaneously, a swirling pool of crimson-purple flames appeared ahead of the leading ships, growing and bloating every second, until it spanned almost a hundred kilometres, a churning whirlpool of madness and screams, a gateway to hell.

One by one the ships vanished in flashes of light as they were swallowed by the portal, to be flung to far off destinations known only to madmen and false gods.

Demior danced his blades skilfully around his opponents defences, leveraging his spatha's blade at just the right angle to divert an attempted parry before striking with his gladius at an exposed midriff, only barely missing as his enemy twisted away. Sheened in sweat, bulging muscles veined and taught, his opponent counterattacked, bringing his heavy blade down from a height, and was easily parried by Demior with his crossed swords. Suddenly the wind was pushed from his lungs as his opponent launched violent kick. Losing his footing and almost stumbling to the ground, he shifted his balance and remained standing, batting aside a follow up strike with a clang of steel.

His opponent was unrelenting, a muscled bull of an astartes wielding a heavy power sword opposed to Demior's two honour blades, employed in the ancient Maccragan style. A form taught only to the elite members of the XIIIth legion, merging flexible defence with sudden attack, it presented a challenging proposition for any opponent.

The practise cages of the Ultramarines strike cruiser _Caltis Ultra_ rung with the clash of steel and pounding of transhuman feet. Some fully armoured, others stripped to the waste, heavily muscled chests and black carapace plugs exposed. Demior was dressed as such, clad in training breeches and leather boots. He ducked a wide sweep and brought his gladius up in anticipation of the return strike and readied his spatha. Perfectly timed, he deflected his the blow and struck, his blade connecting with his rivals throat and pulling off a kidney blow with his gladius using well practised footwork. The astartes before him stumbled as he was driven to his knees, his sword sent spinning away with a flick of Demior's blade.

"You've lost your touch Sergeant," jibed Demior, motioning for his personal serf carrying his blade's scabbards. "Your time in that armour has made you complacent to the reality of battle."

"Perhaps," grunted the thick-set Sergeant, rising to his feet and retrieving his sword. "You're fast Centurion, I'll give you that, certainly helps in the cages. But if the talk is of battlefield reality, every strike you landed would have bounced off my hardened hide like a stick hitting a rock."

Demior sheathed his blades in one fluid motion, the serf bowing and backing away. "Even Tactical Dreadnought armour isn't invulnerable Fornus. If your foe is accurate he'll find those chinks and bleed you slowly."

"Blood clots sir," replied the sergeant. "Let me worry about my wounds, and you about the wider battle."

"To do so I must know that my men are capable of performing with the equipment issued to them," said Demior, stepping out of the cage. "I've seen the destruction wrought by terminator armour, I don't doubt you're fully competent in its use. But your sword perplexes me. Why do you still use that lump of iron? A veteran like you could definitely be approved for something finer than your Proteus pattern. A blade hand-forged, perfectly balanced, unique to you alone."

Fornus slowly spun his sword in his hand. Skull pommelled, its thick blade four feet long, it was identical to the thousands of such weapons churned out of forges throughout the Imperium.

"It's been with me a long while Centurion, and never failed me. I am a practical man, and wage war with practical weapons, I've never needed more."

Demior shrugged. "Suit yourself Sergeant. As long as your squad can crush any resistance we encounter, you may use whatever weapons you like."

Demior walked through the array of fighting cages, nodding to the salutes from his men as he passed. They were all from his cohort within the 101st company, posted to the _Caltis Ultra_ for the coming compliance campaign. Nigh on one hundred Ultramarines were on board, supplemented by Fornus's Terminator squad, all under Demior's direct command. Their victory's would be his, the glory they would earn, the cities they would conquer, this was his chance to make his mark on his Legion.

He had been inducted into the Invictarii, the Legion's elite, marked for high command. Excelling at everything his mentors taught him, be it bladework or logistics, he was in theory the prime example of his Primarch's vision. He had served with honour, at the forefront of the 12th Expeditionary Fleet, at times fighting within sight of Guilliman himself. When not in battle, he learned of its tactics and campaign strategy, the ways of war perfected by his Primarch and others. How to be a leader of men, both mortal and transhuman. Now, after twenty five years, he would use this knowledge, with the authority over a cohort. His first command.

But in the back of his mind, he could not shake a feeling of unease. He saw a marine slammed onto the training floor, blood oozing from a smashed nose. On the battlefield, he was responsible for these men. He would have to make decisions that would result in the deaths of his legionaries. Demior had killed countless soldiers in his four decades of crusading, and seen dozens of his brothers dead on the field. But he had never looked a brother in the eye, and sent him to his death.

He shook away the dark thoughts of death, there would be plenty of time for that. They had been three weeks in the tide of the warp, and the ship's navigator predicted they would reach the Aureola Reaches any day now. And that meant one thing. War.


	3. Chapter 3

"They're keeping their distance sir, holding at just over ninety-thousand."

Vajeera grunted in response. He stroked his chin, a churned mass of scar tissue that spread from his jaw down to chest, courtesy of a bolt round that had put him in the medicae bay for a month. It had annihilated the rebel he had been grappling with.

That had been almost thirty years ago, serving as a junior officer on a frigate he couldn't recall the name of. Now he was captain of his own ship, the Crusade Class cruiser _Dagger of Mars._ Under the overall command of the Luna Wolves of course, but he could forget that small detail most of the time. On his ship his word was law, life and death.

He glared at the viewscreen, and the five contacts displayed on it. Who would've thought how much three red bleeping dots could exude such a threatening aura?

The _Dagger_ was the lead ship in a small scouting patrol sent beyond the main force of the fleet. The patrol contained another Legion vessel, the _Caltis Ultra,_ and four frigates. The unknown vessels had appeared an hour ago, and behaved cautiously since then, never coming within identification range.

There was a hiss as the bridges blast doors slid open to reveal Depus, the senior legion officer on board.

"Any change Captain?" asked the astartes. "My warriors are spoiling for a fight."

Vajeera slowly turned to face his technical superior. "Lieutenant." He did not salute. "No change, they want to keep us at a distance. I've a suspicion they're drawing us in."

"We must have them outgunned then," replied Depus, walking past him to look at the viewscreen. "Pirates most likely. Eldar, maybe, bastards always shirk from a fight."

"We'll see Lieutenant. But until we have them in range we can't know."

Depus turned his gaze upon the starboard viewport, catching sight of the Ultramarines strike cruiser. On board was that Ultramarines officer Demior, and a hundred of his men.

"Think we can rely on the XIII, Captain?" he said.

Vajeera shrugged. "If they're anything like you, we'll be fine. No ship I've seen could ever resist an astartes boarding party."

One of crewmen shouted over the quiet bridge.

"We've lost them Captain! Sudden acceleration, they're gone!"

"Maintain heading," said Vajeera calmly. "I won't have us run blindly into a trap. Keep running the augurs, they can't have gone far."

"We have them sir! They've changed heading, and are closing on us, fast!"

Vajeera ran to his console. "Battle stations! Ready torpedoes for launch, double check all weapon batteries are ready to fire on my mark. When will they be in identification range?"

"Two minutes Captain," came the reply.

"Comms, get me the shipmasters of the _Caltis Ultra_ and our frigate squadron."

"Patching you through now."

"Shipmaster Torhanion," voxed Vajeera to the Ultramarine strike cruiser. "Alter course forty-five to starboard, if things go south I want to have them in a crossfire, and ready your attack craft. Captain Fargal, hang your squadron back until we know what we're dealing with."

He vaguely heard the acknowledgements as he took in the reams of data that were pouring in through his cranial implants. One caught his attention.

At the same time as he saw the dread result of the identity scans his first officer called to him. "In range Captain, scan complete."

Orks.

Brutish, crude ships of beaten iron and scrap, bristling with cannon barrels and gun turrets haphazardly along their jagged hulls. Vajeera could never understand how such poorly constructed ships even held together, let alone gave battle in the void. But many a crusading captain had learnt the hard way never to underestimate the green beast, after their ships were crippled and overrun with relentless force and firepower.

If the ships had appeared even remotely human, the procedure would've been to initiate contact. But in the case of xenos, especially orks, extermination was the only option.

This encounter had him nervous however, though he would never show it. Vajeera had never known orks to avoid a fight, especially on equal terms. Their initial contacts had held back, waiting for… something, before committing. And now they came on with gusto, it was atypical of thier crude race.

"Interesting…" murmured Depus, also noticing the orks behaviour. "After Ullanor I thought I'd seen all a greenskin was capable of. I'll ready my men for boarding."

"No," said Vajeera, eyes locked on the viewscreen. "This engagement is irregular, I want your men on board until I have a clearer picture."

"Right you are Captain," Depus replied, impressed as always at the mortal captains chagrin.

"They've launched torpedoes, Captain-"

"Track their approach," called out Vajeera. "Avert our heading if we're on a collision course, we've plenty of time."

Depus knew that this war of maneuvering could continue for some time before he and and his men were called upon. It was amazing how tye clash of kilometre long ships could ever be called 'boring,' but it wouldn't be the first time. He turned from the bustling activity of the bridge and activated his vox.

"Barad, do you copy?"

"Ready for orders sir," came the reply.

"Our enemies this day are orks Sergeant, and our orders are to repel potential boarders, for now."

"The Captain's playing it cautious sir?"

"Something like that. Anyway, ready the squads, make sure they have their anti-greenskin doctrine fresh in their minds."

"After Ullanor sir, I doubt they need reminding. But it will be done."

Depus cut the link, picturing the surly sergeant bellowing at the marines of the 2nd battalion to form up and ready themselves for the imminent battle. Eiridor Barad was an asset to the 21st that that the company could not do without, a veteran of over one-hundred years service, his depth of experience was eclipsed only by their Captain of Terran birth.

The bridge's atmosphere was tense but controlled, every man, woman and servitor setting about their appointed task with grim effiency. Nothing less from a ship of the Warmaster's Legion. Vajeera was at the centre, the ship itself responding to his every order.

"Hard to port helmsman, keep her steady."

The two fleets were engaged in a maneuvering dance, lit up by flashes of weapons fire hurling thousands of tonnes of ordnance across the void, but the range was still too great and the few shots on target pattered off void shields.

The floor beneath Depus' feet vibrated as the _Dagger of Mars_ unleashed a thunderous broadside. He saw an ork ship, a heavy cruiser by Imperial standards, obscured by a flash of light as its shields collapsed under the weight of firepower.

"Now Fargal! Hit them with everything you've got!"

Spears of lance-strikes brighter than suns sliced through the ork ship like meat on a butcher's slab, tearing great wounds in its flanks that weeped debris and detritus of war.

But there were too many enemy ships to lose focus on the bigger picture.

"One of their escorts is dangerously close Captain!" called out a surveyor-officer.

"Bring the dorsal guns to bear," said Vajeera with a wave of gloved hand. "Keep the starboard broadsides focussed on the wounded cruiser, I don't want it limping away. And relay word to the _Caltis Ultra_ to break up that shoal of destroyers on our port flank!"

Depus heard the alarm sound a moment before the first officer shouted in urgency.

"That lone escort's launched boarding torpedoes, impact fifty seconds! Brace for impact Captain?"

"No, our turrets will deal with them," replied Vajeera. "Where are our dorsal batteries? That ship should be wreckage by now!"

Depus stared at the tactical screen detailing incoming ordnance, in particular the two blips registering the boarding torpedoes, no doubt packed to bursting with filthy green-skinned bodies.

"Luna Wolves, prepare to repel boarders," he announced into his vox.

"They won't make it through our turrets," said Vajeera dismissively, as if speaking to a child. "Helmsman, slow our speed and bring us twenty degrees to port, we're going to finish that bastard with the torpedoes."

Depus knew that streams of lascannon fire and thousands of cannon rounds were filling the void in front of the ork boarding torpedoes. Vajeera was right, they stood little chance of making it through. Still… He scolded himself for thinking it, but he could do with a test of his abilities, the journey to this system had been long and uneventful…

He realised his gauntlet was gripping the leather-bound handle of his sword. A great slab of plasteel and monomolecular teeth, it had been the ruin of many beings across the galaxy.

"Captain one's made it through! Impact in-"

The entire bridge shook violently with a rumble like thunder, crewmen sent sprawling to the floor as tremors rocked the ship.

"That sounded close," murmured Vajeera, heard only by Depus's enhanced hearing over the chaos that now engulfed the bridge. He turned to his crew. "Report! Report, Terra damn you!"

"Breach on the upper decks Captain… engaging boarding protocols!"

Vajeera glanced at Depus, who was securing his helmet in place. The astartes smiled beneath the MkIV grill. "Looks like the _Dagger_ might be in need of our assistance after all Captain."

"They're close sir, I have reports of intruders and weapons fire on deck eleven, thats-"

"I know, right below us!" bellowed Vajeera. "Depus, deal with it!"

The Luna Wolf was already striding for the exit.

"With pleasure Captain. Don't wait for me!"

He checked his boltgun. Tigrus pattern, fully loaded with twenty 60. cal mass reactive rounds, three spare magazines. He felt for his pistol, an umbra Mk V, secure in it's holster of thick grox hide. His tactical display scrolled before his eyes as he located the nearest squad.

"Sergeant Ared," he spoke into his helmets vox. "Get your men to deck eleven, I may be in need of assistance."

"On our way sir!" Give us three minutes!"

"Take your time Sergeant," laughed Depus. "I could do with a challenge!"

He clicked his fingers at a squad of armsmen. "With me men!" he boomed, his already deep voice amplified by his vox grill. "For Lupercal!"

Depus smiled under his helmet as he saw the faces of the nervous looking mortals light up at the mention of the mighty Primarch. They needed inspiration if they were going to stand a chance in the coming battle.

Boarding actions. Zone mortalis. Close quarter murder. The victor of this sort of vicious combat would be the side that could concentrate the most raw power to a single area and break the enemy through force of arms and brute strength. Maneuvering and guile was practically nonexistent, but there was a certain purity to the brutality of it. It was the martial form most suited to the space marines, what they had been bred for. They excelled at it. As did orks.

He heard the deep rapid bangs of small-arms gunfire. Screams of the dying echoed through the halls.

"Sergeant at arms," he said to the armoured man leading the armsmen.

"Stay behind me, let me do the bulk if the fighting. You and your men are to engage any xeno bastard that makes it past me, wait til you have a clear shot, understood?"

"Yes sir!" came the reply.

The sounds of battle grew louder, Depus could make out the screeching and churning of orkish chain weapons over the din of gunfire. Suddenly a dishevelled crewman in ripped fatigues ran around a corner towards them, bloodied and panicking, running as if hell had opened behind him.

Depus let him go as he levelled his bolter. His auto senses were attuned to the weapon, locking the quasi-muscles of the fibre bundles in his hands and arms into standard legion firing position.

A grenade bounced around the corner, the armsmen skidding back as it detonated with a boom of shrapnel and flame, a piece of the ceiling caving in adding to the deluge of dust and smoke. Depus stood steady in his armour, his vision switched to infrared to pierce the murk. He tapped off two shots with his boltgun, dropping two orks as they ran through the chaos. Their burly bodies fell hard, blasted and torn.

There was a booming of heavy shells and crack of lighter rounds as the main force of xenos rounded the corner and opened up with their crude weapons, ugly shouts and grunts echoing from fanged maws. Depus flinched as his pauldron took a hit, chipping the pristine white paint and ricocheting with a snap of iron. He hammered off shots into the mass of bodies, faster and faster. He could hear screams of pain and shouts of indiscernible orders behind him as the armsmen took fire and returned it with their shotguns.

He reloaded smoothly, the movements ingrained into his muscles over years of training and drill. His finger hammered on the trigger as his auto senses picked out targets within the haze of dust and gunsmoke.

A high calibre round hit his greave, another pinged his vambrace. He was taking heavy fire, but he kept the pressure on his foes, showering them with bolts that blasted gaping wounds in their flesh. He could not stop. To falter was to die.

Three massive orks charged through the smoke firing wildly with heavy pistols and howling bestial war cries. Depus shot one cleanly through the brain and another through the leg, blowing it off at the knee. His sights aligned to the disgusting visage of the third.

Click. Magazine empty.

Quick as White Scar drew a tulwar, his pistol was out, blasting bolts down the corridor. Two hit the charging ork, the first blowing out it's gut while the second tore off half its head. As it stumbled to the ground Depus fired into the remaining orks, shrapnel and blood billowing from hits. He had no idea how many he had killed. Orks were damned tough, taking a dead on head shot to put them in the dirt. He thought to reload his bolter, but he would have been too slow for what came next.

He holstered his pistol with one hand and drew his chainsword with the other, leaning forward to charge the heavily armoured ork that was stomping towards him with the clonk of steel-shod feet. Activating the churning blade he swept it wide, cleaving the alien's arm off at the elbow before smashing it off it's feet with a barge of his shoulder and a bone shattering crack.

Another came at him waving a cruder version of his own weapon, belching smoke and noise. As their blades locked with a whine of screeching iron Depus saw his enemy clearly through the shower of sparks.

A hideous face snarled back, beady red eyes glaring with hatred and a need to kill.

Depus disengaged, parrying a violent follow up blow that shook his arm with its strength.

With a powerful overhead swing he hacked a chunk of green meat out of the beast's shoulder. The ork howled on rage, and Depus brought down his swords heavy pommel in a skull-shattering blow. It crumpled to the ground with a grunt. Depus finished it off with a stamp of his boot and readied his blade.

Five more charged him, heavy boots hammering on the steel deck. With a glance Depus had analysed their disposition and weapons, shifting his stance and throwing his sword forward in a perfect thrust into the closest orks gaping maw and out through the back of its skull. He spun and dragged his blade free in one fluid motion batting aside a swing from from a jagged cleaver.

"Abomination!" Depus roared as he cleaved the warrior's head from his body before plunging his sword into the guts of another. He stumbled as he felt a wallop on his shoulder from a crude axe, fashioned from great lump of metal.

They were strong, almost at astartes levels. A mortal would've broken his own arm if they'd hit ceramite that hard. And deceptively fast, the beast that hit him seizing an advantage and pressing the attack. Depus struggled to regain the initiative, also batting aside blows from another screaming ork.

They wore armour of beaten of iron fastened with leather and chains, painted with glyphs and simple patterns. Their weapons were similarly rough, high caliber stub weapons bolted together as if from scrap, huge bladed weapons grasped in oversized fists.

Guttural shouts and roars echoed from their fanged maws in a language whose only words consisted of those that could convey meaning of violence and war.

"Aaaargh!" he roared as he shoved his sword up to its grip into the chest of one of the abominations, it's blood showering him dark and thick. He could smell it through his helmet's grill, taste the alien particles on his tongue.

He fell with great thud of ceramite armour on the metal deck as an ork smashed a studded iron cudgel across his head. The weapon broke in two, but it had done its job, the horde was on top of him, slashing and bludgeoning in an orgy of violence.

All Depus could see was a blur of battered steel and green flesh through a sheen of red as his armour pumped his body with adrenaline and advanced combat stims. He thrashed with his fists and feet feeling bone break and skin tear. He ignored a stab of pain as a cruel blade found a weak spot, punching through and drawing blood. Rolling onto his front, he propelled himself at an enemy, grabbing the ork around his midriff and slamming it into the corridor wall with a clang. Sliding out his combat blade with one fluid motion he quickly shoved it deep it into the beast's eye before turning and breaking a jaw with his ceramite knuckles. He drew his pistol and fired the two remaining shells. Two heads exploded in red gore and bone fragments.

The vox fizzed and Depus heard Vajeera's voice in his hear, but his words were drowned out by the screeching of a chainaxe as he took a blow to the side of the head, feeling his brain vibrate inside his skull as fell to his knees.

He grunted in pain as lightning-wreathed claws stabbed through his gorget and shoulder, lifting him and pinning him to the wall.

The beast wielding the power claw snarled, displaying jagged saliva laced fangs.

It clenched its claws, sending pain shooting into Depus's chest as tore through muscle like cheap string. Marshalling his reserves of energy, he headbutted the abomination with crack of cartilage and pushed with all his strength, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Grunting with effort he shoved his enemy back, hammering his fist into its face again and again.

Bolter fire. The rapid bark of mass reactives filled the air. Depus saw out of the corner of his eye the orks scythed down, their heads, torsos and arms detonating in showers of gore. The warrior in front of him howled and fell as it took a shell to it's side, shearing it's spine in two. Depus wrenched it's claw out of shoulder and brought his heel down on its skull, crushing the orks brain to pulp.

He looked up from the bloody mass to see Sergeant Ared hastily salute. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Never better Sergeant, but thanks for the assistance. Big bastard almost had me!"

He looked over the sprawled ork corpses, horrific alien faces twisted in the throes of death. Kneeling, he examined a symbol scrawled on a rusted piece of armour.

Two crossed axes, painted in encrusted blood.

"You should see the apothecary," said Ared, his face obscured by his MkII helmet, but the concern in his voice was evident.

"It's nothing Ared, I've had worse," said Depus, flexing his arm. His shoulder burned as if stuck with a blazing brand, his helmet hiding his silent gasp.

One of Ared's marines pried Depus's chainsword from the chest of a corpse with a sickening squelch of churned flesh and splintered bone. "Your weapon sir," he said, offering it to Depus.

His blood-slicked gauntlet gripped the haft. He heard a whimper behind, and looked back where the armsmen were huddled. Two of the orks had gotten amongst them and had taken a terrible toll, the broken bodies of their victims lying shattered by unnatural alien strength. One lay crying at the edge of death, his guts wrenched from his body. The sergeant-at arms nodded to Depus, his shotgun limply clutched in his one unbroken arm.

"Lieutenant Depus!" crackled a voice in Depus's ear. Vajeera.

"We've broken them Lieutenant, the ork force is either destroyed, fleeing or crippled. All save one cruiser, which has destroyed two of our escorts and is in the process of boarding the Ultramarines. The _Dagger_ is hammering it hard, but I want a boarding action to gut the bastard and take pressure off the _Caltis Ultra._ Get your men to the assault craft, boarding run in eight minutes."

"It will be done Shipmaster," said Depus, motioning for Ared's squad to move out. "And Vajeera," he added. "These orks are of the Blood-axe clan, fierce fighters that utilise basic strategy."

"There was one more thing Depus." Vajeera's voice was unusually hesitant. "The sensorium magi have analysed the initial readings from the ships that led us here. They were not ork in origin, they were something else."

"What are you saying Captain, that those initial contacts led us to the orks?" asked Depus.

"I don't know Depus, but whoever those ships were, they are still out there. I'll send the information back to the fleet, and keep one eye open."

"You can never know what you'll find in the dark places of the galaxy," mused Depus,cutting the link as the marines entered an elevator that would take them to the closest hangar bay, on the eighth deck. He activated his vox.

"All Luna Wolves, prepare for a boarding action, get to your assault craft. We're going to save the Ultramarines!"

He was answered by calls of acknowledgement and even a few laughs from the younger sergeants. The 21st had been too long without a fight, and was spoiling to wet their blades. As Depus strode into the hangar bay, followed by Ared's squad, he couldn't blame them. The fight on deck eleven had warmed his blood, and he craved more aliens to kill. He approached the waiting boarding craft, a caestus assault ram, staple of legion boarding parties. Its powerful rear engines were spooling loudly, drowning out the incantations of a red-robed techpriest.

"The battalion is aboard assault craft and awaiting orders Lieutenant," crackled Sergeant Barad's voice.

Depus entered the cramped space of the caestus, the twin-hulled boarding ram that his men would use to cross the cold void and bring a bloody reckoning to their prey.

"Very good Sergeant." Depus switched his vox frequency to cover every marine under his command.

"Luna Wolves! You are all seasoned killers of the ork, veterans of Ullanor. We crushed them there and we will crush them now. We're going to plunge the spear into their engines, hit them hard and fast where it will do the most damage, I want this done quick and clean. Show _no_ mercy."

The assault ramp slammed shut with a crank of hydraulics, hissing as it sealed the craft. Depus and his brothers were plunged into near darkness, a dim red light on the roof making their armour appear the colour of blood.


End file.
